Headstones and Matrons
by Strummer29
Summary: Basically a few moments of Grace contemplating her life and dealign with a few things I wanted to throw at her.
1. Headstones and Matrons

I wrote this while listening to a Canadian Band called the Headstones who i think fit Grace's personality andhave used soem of their lyrics here. They are from the song 'Heart of Darkness'

I don't own Joan of Arcadia I'm just playing.

Headstones and Matrons

I lie here on manicured grass and look up to the innumerable stars and dream of the distant galaxies they command, bathing me in centuries old light and splendour. I wonder if the great philosophers looked upon these same stars and dreamed up society and it's quirks from the glare of burning chemicals farther from them physically than their dreams and yet still as present. Personally I wonder whether I'll ever see one of those orbs supernova in the sky. Then I remember the likelihood of that is less than that of my mother putting down the Merlot for the sake of actually experiencing reality.

I know it's unusual for anyone to lie in a cemetery in the wee hours of the morning and still be breathing. Even the Satan worshipers are out of here by one am. I know because I've watched them searching for an answer they hadn't already turned up and been failed by. Personally I'm here because of the sunrise, well actually watching the sunrise with the only person I knew that gave a damn about me. I trace the cold granite lettering and wonder how long it had actually been since I had been here last. As I finished rubbing the 'H' in Elizabeth it struck me. I was here the night my mother came home from the hospital and immediately picked up the bottle of whiskey from where she had left it on the kitchen counter. That was just before my foray into AlAteen. I adjust my headphones and lie back down.

'Heart of darkness

Heart of pain

Heart of darkness

And it's swimming in my veins'

There is just something about listening to the Headstones in a graveyard that makes me smile. I find it better to think of the best in a graveyard, grin and bear it, then find somewhere else to cry. I never like to cry anyways. It makes me miss the things that were important to me even more than I already do.

I conjure up the memory of the first time I knew I was loved and funny enough it was about Elizabeth Rove. I had skinned my knee when I was around five falling off my skateboard. I sat on the sidewalk holding back tears and watching as she kneeled in front of me and dabbed at the blood on my leg with one of her magically appearing Kleenexes. She picked me up and took me inside the house and pulled down her first aid kit. It was tin and I think originally white, but was flecked with many colours of ceramic glaze and one or two of Adam's drawings for good measure. A dinosaur and a sailboat with lots of water full of ripples. She pulled out an Elastoplast bandage and tore of the bottom end and pulled out the gluey fabric. She would sit me on the counter then pull the middle pieces of backing off the back and put it over the bright red spot where I had fallen, pulling the rest of the backing off and smoothing it onto my leg. Then she walked me home.

I get up it's around four a.m. from the tinge of orange on the horizon and I have to get home to do the same to my mother. Pull her up from wherever she landed after falling off her merry-go-round of the bottle.

'Seduced by the bottle, and the warmth of the syringe'

I walk up the driveway my right hand in my pocket gripping my phone. I don't know what lies passed out behind those doors, all I can make out is the penetrating silence and that isn't good for anyone. At once I'm up on my porch and swinging the door open. To quote any number of German's at some point in their lives, '_mein gott_' (my god) and the smell of iron and moisture assaults my senses.

Feedback would be appreciated.


	2. Track Records

I'm back again. This fic is inspired by the Headstones' songs 'Heart of Darkness' and 'When something stands for nothing'. Again reviews are encouraged and keep the constructive criticism coming.

**Track Records**

_'God loves me_

_God loves you_

_God loved Hitler and those six million Jews_

_We do a death dance, he does a body count'_

It was blood, the same blood that flowed through my veins, but I'm betting it was more flammable by now. I bend down and touch my fingers to my mother's carotid artery relieved to feel a beat beneath my fingers. It was thready, but it was there none the less. I dug in my pocket for my handkerchief, the one my granddad gave me, and hold it to the gash on her scalp trying to stem the bleeding. I dial 911 on my cell phone; sometimes I really don't like my instincts. At least I get to talk to Doris the dispatcher again, which in and of itself signifies a problem.

I am on a first name basis with all the emergency personnel of Arcadia dispatch, which testifies, to my mother's solid record of success with her scotched earth policy toward sobriety. The good part about it is that I never have to explain my situation and they already know her medical information, the correct spelling of her name, and our home address.

It doesn't take long the ambulance and my two favorite attendants Brett and Elliot rush into the house and begin administering to my mom. Brett takes the handkerchief off her forehead, it is covered in blood and the embroidery on the corner is half-red, looking more like a laceration that actual lettering. She is getting a banana bag for the alcohol, oxygen to get her blood pressure and stats better, and a butterfly bandage to keep the wound from getting bigger or dirtier on the way to the hospital.

I try to remember where my dad is and pick the most likely out of a list of his possible hiding places.

"Hello, and who the hell is this?"

"Genteel Dad, get your ass to the ER." I have no patience for this and he used to call me immoral. Putz.

"Why?"

"Why do you think? Just haul your ass out of Mrs. Lowenstein's bed and get over to the hospital and deal with your wife." Then I hang up and follow the gurney out of the house. I'll have to clean up the puddle and broken glass later. So much for the hope she'd pull herself off the kitchen floor and make those damn pancakes.

'_And this one's for the silence_

_And the questions that it brings_

_And the smell of time and the reverence_

_And the possibilities'_

The ride to the hospital is relatively quiet apart from the siren. We have this down to a science that conversation isn't really required anymore. I just fill out the forms like I always do and hand them back over to Elliot who is keeping a careful eye on my mother's heart rate, which has a tendency to spike or drop depending on the street taken by the ambulance. I almost used this phenomenon for my science project last year. I even had the title thought up, "The Crossroads of Jose and Morgan Street, a Study in Alcoholic Heart-rates during Emergency Treatments," but my dad nixed it right out of the gate when he saw the book of stats I keep on my mother. The funny thing in that title is that the intersection between Jose Avenue and Morgan Square is where my mom likes to nearly die. Even worse is that it is the same intersection I sat at after hearing about Elizabeth's death, named after my mother's favorite drinking companions.

_'You double up the foreground_

_You put it on a slide_

_Inspect it with your perfect ways_

_Until it burns your eyes.'_

I stopped crying over my mother's fate about the second time that I had to ride in the ambulance beside her, after a night of dancing unsteadily on the Broadway stage she conjured with amber hues every night. I stopped trying to understand how she could keep doing this whole process day in and day out. I stopped calculating her chances of surviving cirrhosis if she stopped, because I knew she never would. I learned that the funny thing about alcoholics is that they will never admit to what they truly are until they hit rock bottom and drag along it for a number of years. Personally I know my mother has been yo-yoing into the same patch of granite reality for years, but wills herself to take one more leap toward it for old times' sake, and then be dragged back out of the hole once more. Maintaining herself as a veritable pinball between reality and a stone wall.

_'And this one's for nothing_

_And this one's for fun_

_And this one's about_

_Rock n' roll and comic books and bubble gum'_


	3. Rammstein and Other German Comforts

Rammstein and Other German Comforts

More fun in the Polk household. This time i used the lyrics from a German Metal Band called Rammstein. Keine Lust and Stein um Stein. The usual disclaimers i don't own Joan of Arcadia or the characters, but oh the fun i would have if i did.

_'Ich hab keine lust_

_Ich hab keine lust_

_Ich hab keine lust_

_Ich hab keine lust_

_Ich hab keine lust mich_

_Nicht zu hassen.'_

_Keine Lust (Don't Feel Like it)- Rammstein_

I'm now lying on the old leather couch in the Nurse's lounge drinking my fourth cup of bad coffee. It's five am and I'm definitely not going to school. I just let my mind drift back over my past history in this place. Not surprisingly I was here two weeks ago on a similar bender related incident. The funny thing is that I've contemplated my own mother's demise so many times and been to the precipice that it no longer fazes me. I just wait, where I can listen to my music, for a pronouncement.

I know the number of tiles on the roof of trauma room one is one thousand two hundred and thirty six, but that was for another reason. I counted tiles so I wouldn't have to see my best friend's mother finally pronounced. I didn't really want to say goodbye to Elizabeth Rove that moment, and wouldn't until three months, two days, six hours, and four bottles of vodka later and even then it took Wolfe dragging me down to the graveyard.

I should really call Wolfe right now, but I'll have to put it off for now since my dad has just walked through the trauma doors.

"Where is my daughter and where is my wife?" I get up and walk to him.

"Can it putz they are still working on her." He shoots me a look of disdain.

"Is she any worse than usual,"

"A little bit, but not much," I shrug as I say this, because it is only a platitude and an act that my father puts on.

"This is becoming more frequent," I see that look in his eye.

"Are you actually going to do anything about her now?" I ask already knowing the answer.

"She just fell and hit her head, there's nothing to worry about," I know that that is the denial talking, but he should be past it already. Beth, my favourite ER night nurse passes us and gives me the thumbs up.

"Well she's conscious now." I turn and head for the trauma room. I hear him grunt in frustration. I make a mental note to call Wolfe before I leave for home. My father jogs to catch up to me.

"Wolfe called. She said she was going to be here in about half an hour." Good because I need a ride home and am not going to share a car with my father. The bastard doesn't even have the decency to clean up after his last round with Mrs. Screw-of-the-week. And this hypocrite says I'm morally bankrupt. "I don't know what you see in a dyke like her. You let her in on everything but won't say a word to your beard, er boyfriend. I thought you were broken up anyways; don't tell me you keep her on the side."

_'Stein um stein mauer ich dich_

_Ein_

_Stein um stein_

_Und keiner hort dich schreien."_

"And be like you dad, never. Now shut up before I contract ad space for those pictures from the Friedman bar mitzvah. You know the ones of you teaching Friedman's mom something new in the janitorial closet." He' paled so much he's almost opaque. He knows I'd do it in a heartbeat.

**Rough translation for the German, Rammstein is a German metal band.**

_I don't feel like it_

_I don't feel like it_

_I don't feel like it_

_I don't feel like it_

_I don't feel like not hating myself._

-and-

_Stone by stone I wall you in_

_Stone by stone_

_And nobody will hear you scream._

You know I love reviews, send them my way.


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